Tracey Martin - Another Little Piece Of My Heart

What if your devastating breakup became this summer’s hit single? In this rock-and-roll retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, music can either bring you together or tear you apart.

At her dying mother’s request, Claire dumps Jared, the only boy she’s ever loved. Left with a broken family and a broken heart, Claire is furious when she discovers that her biggest regret became Jared’s big break. While Jared is catapulted into rock-star status, another piece of Claire’s heart crumbles every time his song plays on the radio.

The summer after her senior year, it’s been months since the big breakup, and Claire is just trying to keep her head down and make it through a tense trip to the beach with her family. But when Jared shows up, and old feelings reignite, can Claire and Jared let go of the past? Or will they be stuck singing the same old refrain?

Another Little

Piece of My Heart

Tracey Martin

www.miraink.co.uk

About the Author

Tracey Martin lives in New Hampshire with her husband. Though always a voracious reader, it wasn’t until studying psychology in graduate school that she realized imaginary people were way more fun than real ones. She’s been writing stories ever since. Her first novel for adults, Wicked Misery, was published by Samhain in 2013. Another Little Piece of My Heart is her YA debut. You can visit her online at www.tracey-martin.comor follow her on Twitter: @TA_Martin.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Claire’s Summer Survival Playlist

Chapter One

Some people are like a venereal disease. Not that I know what one is like firsthand, thanks, but I did have to sit through health class. My point is, these people are the product of a moment of fun in your past, a wild and crazy passion that you look back on with longing and regret. And just when you think they’re gone for good, they return to irritate the hell out of you.

Jared Steele is one of those people.

Down the hallway, someone turns on the radio, and Jared’s soulful voice drifts through my bedroom doorway:

Daddy’s girl, was that red Miata the price of your heart?

You know you can’t—

“Off! Turn it off!” I put my hands over my ears as Kristen runs over and slams my bedroom door shut.

Slumping against my bed, I glimpse the key to my red Miata, which is currently parked in the garage. My nails dig into my palms as I wait for the surge of rage to pass.

It’s not as though Jared’s ever said “Daddy’s Girl”—or any of the other anti-love songs on his hugely successful album—is about me. At least not publicly. I know this because although I try to avoid the hundreds of interviews he’s given, somehow I manage to read them all. But among those of us Jared left behind in southern Connecticut, the truth is a much-whispered but never-confirmed rumor. I’m Jared’s “Daddy’s Girl,” and he got the ultimate revenge, with whipped cream, sprinkles and several Grammy nominations on top.

Asshat.

For good measure, Kristen yells at my sister and her friends to keep it down. As for me, I take a deep breath and pick up my guitar. I need to clear my head or distract myself. Both if I can manage it.

“So, Claire.” Kristen coughs in an exaggerated fashion, trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t happen. “About this new song of yours.”

This is why she’s awesome and my best friend.

Unfortunately, I am not so awesome. After a few minutes of plucking away at an alleged melody, I let out a small scream and bang my head against the footboard. “It’s not coming together. I suck.”

Kristen hits me with one of my slippers. “How long have you been working on it—two days? Give it time. This is about your mom. You can’t just pluck a tune out of thin air.”

“Some people can.” Some people. Meaning Jared. I have memories of sitting on the floor of his bedroom while he provided soundtracks to our conversations. Even his random nonsense could be amazing.

Groaning, I set the guitar down and throw myself on my bed in despair.

Kristen points a finger at me in an aha kind of way. “You and your mother were a case study in the tangled knots of love and power struggles. Maybe you can’t write a song about being twisted up in your emotions because you’re still too twisted up in your emotions to write clearly?”

I hug my down comforter. “First of all, ‘a tangled knot of love and power struggles’? That doesn’t even make sense. Second of all, twisted is the point. That should help the song be honest or something.”

Kristen goes back to uploading the video she took of my band, Stabbing Shakespeare, to our website. “Honesty is good, but maybe the song’s too heavy. Why not stick to the I-hate-Jared tunes? You honestly kick ass at those.”

“Aren’t they getting old?”

“A classic ‘Jared Steele sucks lime-green donkey balls’ tune will never get old. Not with me. And as your manager, you should take my advice. Stabbing Shakespeare is all about the ‘Jared Steele sucks.’”

I slide off the bed and grab my guitar again. “You’re our manager now? I thought you were my therapist.” Actually, Kristen’s father is a psychologist, but she’s been reading his books for years. She claims it’s to help me survive my post-Jared high school life without gratuitous amounts of bloodshed.

“The best managers are probably both.” Kristen presses a couple buttons on my laptop. “Ta-da! Here we are, from last week’s talent show.”

I brace myself as I watch, but Kristen’s right—Stabbing Shakespeare kicks ass, especially on those driving I-hate-Jared songs. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have room to improve.

As she gleefully points out the audience reaction, I concentrate on our performance. The sound is crappy, thanks to Kristen shooting the video on her phone, but even so I can hear how we rushed through the beginning of our first song until our nerves calmed down. So typical.

I turn my attention next to my band members, looking for ways we could improve our visual performance, too. We’re an odd mix. Tiny Alex is lost behind her drums in the auditorium’s poor lighting, but Nate is jumping all over the place, a crazy ball of energy with his bass. Erica, in contrast, serenely strums away, lost in her playing. Every now and then I peek at myself, stuck between Erica and Nate, pretending I have the charisma and stage presence to pull off this act.

I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’m the front person for the band only by default.

Yet despite these flaws, I know we’re good. Really good. Too good to just play at stupid school talent shows or at drunken parties. Good enough that I am determined that one day, one of the songs I write about Jared will get as much play as his songs about me. Only unlike his nasty breakup songs, my songs will be truthful. After all, the truths I have on Jared are so scathing that I don’t need to make up lies about him.

Speaking of which, for the record, I did not dump Jared for a new car. That’s just the most blatant lie on his stupid lying album.

The video ends abruptly and Kristen closes the laptop. “Not bad.”

I bite my lip. Kristen might make an excellent wannabe therapist, but she doesn’t have a trained ear like I do. She didn’t notice how Erica’s high E was slightly flat, or how Alex skipped a beat during the intro, or how I timed my breath badly on the bridge and couldn’t extend the vocals long enough.